11:31 a.m.: Blood Orange's Dev Hynes posted several tweets after his Lollapalooza set Friday saying that he and his girlfriend had been assaulted by security guards. Hynes performed wearing a T-shirt with the names of slaying victims Trayvon Martin and Eric Garner, and spoke out about their deaths and racism from the stage. "Samantha and I just got assaulted by the security," Hynes tweeted after the show. "They grabbed her," he said in a subsequent Tweet. "I asked what they were doing and they grabbed my neck and threw me to the ground, then two others joined in on me." Police said they received no reports on the incident, and that no charges had been filed. Hynes' publicist said the singer would have no further comment at this time. A Lollapalooza spokesman also offered no further information beyond pointing to a statement issued late Friday by promoters C3 Presents: "Late Friday night, we learned of an incident involving an artist and a security guard on site, Since then, we have been in contact with those involved and the authorities, as we work together to resolve the situation. As always, our top priority is to ensure the safety of everyone at the festival."

12:47 p.m.: Jungle has all the signifiers of a soul-funk band. Falsetto vocals? Check. Bumpin' bass? Check. Scratchy guitar? Check. They bring cool little percusion touches: shakers, wind chimes, even the sound of a bicycle bell. There's a Fine Young Cannibals retro-soul vibe in the making, minus a key element -- a commanding singer such as Roland Gift. The U.K. quintet seems to have all the elements in place, but there's no grease or grit. If they were any slicker and smoother, they'd be booked at a tiki bar at an airport in Wichita. (GK)

1:04 p.m.: Now, that's how you make a name for yourself. What a debut. Benjamin Booker rattles amps, cages and bones with a Southern-scorched garage rock, punk and R&B hybrid that touches on key influences ranging from the British Invasion though Jimi Hendrix and no-wave and Husker Du. Close your eyes during vocal-free breaks and his rough albeit melodic guitar sound could pass as that of Kurt Cobain. Yet the young New Orleans musician is much more than a duplication of the past. His throaty, nicotine-stained husky rasp seldom rises above conversational level and, when it whispers, creeps up like a deep-seated fear or anxiety attack. His six-string expressions are similarly evocative. Fueled by overdriven distortion, his guitar snarls, dive-bombs and moans, retreating on occasion for breaths, feedback squalls or unsuspecting returns. He windmills chords and strums as if rubbing clothes against a washboard until his hands bleed, scratching and clawing while refusing to let the momentum die. As unvarnished as his material, Booker plays possessed, twisting his lanky frame into knotty positions, facing off with his drummer and assuming a standing crouch position at the microphone. Songs that begin slow and smoky come out of nowhere to smack listeners upside the head with swampy menace. He and his stripped-down band conjure freight trains careening down wooden tracks and feverish Sunday baptist services marked by hand-claps and shouts. Booker, whose self-titled first record is still weeks away, has already lapped what's on the album. "If I can call you my friend, I can have some peace of mind," he sings. Then again, maybe not. Caught up in the intensity, he finishes the blistering performance by raising his Stratocaster guitar above his head and proceeds to slam it onto the stage floor, destroying it in time-honored Pete Townshend fashion before spontaneously whipping a few broken pieces into the crowd. (Editor's note: Several observers later reported that a woman in the audience was hit by some of the debris and required medical treatment.) (BG)

1:32 p.m.: Ukulele alert. Australian singer-songwriter Vance Joy breaks one out in a set heavy on pleasant but hardly transcendent folk-pop in the mold of Lumineers or Mumford & Sons. He's user friendly, with a big "Vance Joy" poster announcing to everyone who he is -- not a bad idea at a festival where many fans stumble into newbie artists they've never seen or heard before. Joy does well enough and he delivers one song that claims, "Your mess is mine." Does this mean he and his band are on clean-up duty later tonight? Careful what you wish for, guys. (GK)

Who peed in Kevin Williams' Wheaties? Lighten up and have a little fun. It was a beautiful day in the park, and tens of thousands of people had fun dancing and jumping to Grouplove's set, which included a fun (yes, fun. perhaps not technically perfect) cover of Sabotage. Not sure...

2:02 p.m.: Ouch. Yeah, that'll leave a mark. Ratking emcee Patrick Morales, a.k.a. Wiki, gives into the moment and smacks himself in the forehead with the microphone in time with the beat. Then, he does it again. This time, the impact bloodies his face, leaving a distinct impression. His action also deadens the microphone, suggesting the ferocity with which he bashed it into his skull. There's no questioning the rap trio's resolve now. Even without Morales' physical sacrifice, though, the band makes its appearance count. "Amazing how I made it out," Morales and cohort Hak chant, taking struggle and translating it into personal pride and strength amidst avant beats and scrambled collages assembled by deejay Sporting Life. Ratking represents the evolution of underground New York hip-hop, as narratives largely avoid weed, women and cash cliches in pursuit of messages with deeper substance. The ensemble's hometown--its neighborhoods, gentrification and strife--figure into many of the "six million stories to tell," including the epic "Snow Beach" and "Canal." Ratking brings the swagger and balances it by pairing Morales' extroverted personality against Hak's introverted approach via an update on the good cop/bad cop routine. Morales emerges as the visual and vocal standout, hopping and bouncing while spitting verses with an arched New Yawk accent and dizzying flow that includes pants, barks and shouts. His presence almost deems the crew's adventurous, vertigo-prone backdrops an afterthought. (BG)

2:15 p.m. The sparse, laid-back, mostly female crowd must mean it's time for Matthew Houck's sonic gentility. I love that this band looks like it could have just walked out of the crowd, sonic references intact with the percussionist's Neil Young t-shirt, and that bearded dude wearing ... imagine that! -- a Phosphorescent t-shirt. This band .. Houck, essentially, has made a name for itself by more than capably mining that semi Grateful Dead vibe, sprawling folk rock that has just enough edge to keep attention, combined with focus. And it's really good. Tight and tidy, with the most important thing for a hot folk-rock band: a rippin' good lead guitarist, Ricky Ray Jackson, to give the songs somwhere to go. So there was none of that insipid, jangle-backed repetition less capable folkies fall back on. Solo after solo was blistering and incisive, punctuation rather than showing off, and always the exact right length. Houck's voice is perfect for this stuff as well, a little gravel buttressing a tone tailor made for cutting through his band, wrapping around lyrics in a way that gives life to slow tunes, and kicks classics such az "Dead Heart" in the butt. Starting the day with Benjamin Booker then coming here makes for a so-far excellent sonic day. Jam on, dude. (KW)

2:40 p.m.: Parquet Courts' set is a tale told in three parts. The first is a concert presented like a concept album, with a series of songs smashing into one another with barely a pause between. It's a thrilling ride that plays to the Brooklyn quartet's considerable strengths, with guitarists Austin Brown and Andrew Savage pinwheeling riffs and fills around the hold-on-tight rhythms of bassist Sean Yeaton and drummer Max Savage. Then the show slides into a couple of slower, more discursive numbers, including "Instant Disassembly" before returning for Part 3, which becomes an exhilirating sprint to the finish. By going from its slowest to its fastest tracks, the band turns an afternoon in the park into something akin to a rollercoaster ride, slow-moving anticipation giving way to off-the-rails rush. (GK)

3:42 p.m.: Note to Duke Dumont and other electronic acts playing Perry's: Did you not catch wind of the fantastic DJ Spinn performance two weeks ago at Pitchfork Festival? Apparently not. Because its hard to imagine Dumont would settle for simply sitting behind decks perched high above the crowd and playing the role of Anywhere U.S.A. dance deejay. Sure, the English artist avoids the tired soft-to-loud climaxes and booming bass rituals relied on by so many of his peers. And his feel-good playlist jives with the ideal afternoon weather. But the constant repetition is banal, and the blend of house, techno and soul remixes little different than what you'd encounter on a radio station (vide, the familiar "Need You (100%)"). Yup, the kids love it, and, most importantly, aren't old enough to know that going to a nightclub for the same experience is cheaper. (BG)

4:20 p.m.: After a 20-minute "intro" by his DJ, who seems to be stalling for time as much as hyping the crowd, Rich Homie Quan finally shows up. The Atlanta MC is not in the mood to work particulalry hard as he shouts a few refrains, conducts a few audience participation games, and shouts out to Michigan State, which adopted one of his songs as an anthem. Then Quan dives into the track getting all that Midwestern university love -- "Type of Way" -- and engages with his music for the first time. As soon as the track ends, the fans begin to stream out. Quan takes their cue, and exits himself soon after. His total stage time clocks in under 20 minutes. Nice work if you can get it. (GK)

Who peed in Kevin Williams' Wheaties? Lighten up and have a little fun. It was a beautiful day in the park, and tens of thousands of people had fun dancing and jumping to Grouplove's set, which included a fun (yes, fun. perhaps not technically perfect) cover of Sabotage. Not sure...

4:44 p.m.: Gramatik pulls out a trumpet and layers horn parts over a buffet of 20s-era hot jazz, Delta blues and old-school funk. The Slovenian producer also appears to blow a saxophone and flute during the set. To the naked ear, these passages sound no more "live" than Britney Spears' vocals onstage, but Gramatik gets the benefit of the doubt of only because he strives to do something different with electronic music at the Perry's Stage. In addition, the rubbery grooves and brass-infused crescendos dare anyone not to swivel their hips and get down. Of course, there's a drawback: Many tracks replicate what you'd hear from the grooves of a classic James Brown, Ohio Players or Funkadelic LP. Ditto an airing of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." Why not just listen to the genuine article? But when those horns get chopped up and utilized and as icing, Gramatik looks like a wizard. (BG)

4:52 p.m.: Minute after interminable minute, one detestable ditty after another, you hunt for eloquent ways to say that a band is awful. But sometimes you just have to let that simple statement stand. Grouplove's set was awful. Enthusiasm doesn't make up for the same boring song, over and over and ... The rhythm section has all the agility of an elephant, plonking away behind rudimentary musicmaking and barely competent songcraft, a series of choruses masquerading as complete songs. Singsong vocalizations act as filling for a dearth of lyrics. "Whoooa, whoooa, whoooah whoa!" Got it. Christian Zucconi can shout "Yay!" all he likes, but this is the worst set I have seen by any band at Lollapalooza this year, which is a down year musically. Opera singers have a thing called "multiplicity of tone." In rock, folks are just poor singers. But his hair is blue. So there's that. (KW)

5:17 p.m.: Smallpools comes off as something straight off a music-industry assembly line. The Los Angeles quartet performs a song about killer whales, complete with plastic props tossed into the audience. Another song is called "American Love," apparently because it sounds like a universal topic. The songs are upbeat yet bland, melodic yet generic, a personality free version of what a well-groomed modern rock band should look and sound like. (GK)

5:34 p.m.: "We're called Fitz & the Tantrums." Uh, no. Manchester Orchestra leader Andy Hull is only kidding but there's nothing funny about the way he utters the dig at the band his Atlanta quintet follows. While it's impossible to tell if Fitz & the Tantrums' trite soul-pop set dredged up any resentment or anger, Hull's veteran band certainly plays with a chip on its collective shoulder. Amplifiers blare, guitars crash, drums hammer and Hull's singing smashes through everything in its path. The group's gut-punching midrange and heavy rock intermittently veers toward one-dimensional status but often gets rescued by the singer's desperate deliveries and his mates' ear-mulching grind. For Manchester Orchestra, the invisible walls of volume and unrelenting sonic hailstorms are lifelines. Such straightforward heft and visceral loudness may have fallen out of favor in mainstream circles, but that doesn't mean they've lost their cathartic power. (BG)

6:10 p.m.: On its 20th anniversary, Nas' "Illmatic" need make no apologies for sounding dated or irrelevant. Nas makes the case by devoting the first half of his set to the album, a trip down "Memory Lane" that ranges from the poignancy of "One Love" (a series of letters to dead friends) to the blunt-spoken "It Ain't Hard to Tell." Nas doesn't do medleys or snippets. With only a DJ at his back and no hype man or sidekick, he takes the material head-on, his flow as stark and direct as his no-nonsense man-in-black persona. "I'm the one who said hip-hop is dead at one time and everybody freaked out," he says. But here he again demonstrates the art form's continuing ability to renew and inform, as if there were any doubt. "All I need is one mic, two turntables and you." (GK)

6:45 p.m.: Foster the People built its fan base the hard way, through touring, making its direct appeal to the people. It reassures that the people can be swayed by such a blatant appeal to stultifying mediocrity. At Lollapalooza and a packed Samsung stage and on the heels of its second full-length, Foster the People is all about bouncy, likable dance pop, with a little bit of electronic sheen to seduce the EDM-loving hordes. This, it certainly does, even as the real complexities are execution. Dual percussionists fail to even muster the rhythmic flair of a single talented drummer. Cranky oldsters can't say they've heard this stuff before, because standards were higher. Even when radio in the 1980s was stuffed with bland synth pop, execution was still at a higher level than this bar-band pop. Falsetto background vocals trill away, because falsetto is in these days. It's all arty and stuff. Frontman Mark Foster certainly makes up in enthusuasm what he lacks in ultimate quality, which in many ways makes this stuff the perfect festival act, like a childrens music performer who relies on a chirpy voice and bright colors to entertain the young'uns. But Foster the People continues the theme of an adequate bar band, elevated to a big stage thanks to overall genre mediocrity and an undiscerning public. No shame in taking advantage of that. (KW)

Who peed in Kevin Williams' Wheaties? Lighten up and have a little fun. It was a beautiful day in the park, and tens of thousands of people had fun dancing and jumping to Grouplove's set, which included a fun (yes, fun. perhaps not technically perfect) cover of Sabotage. Not sure...

7:05 p.m.: Spoon front man Britt Daniel mentions the band's new record coming out this Tuesday, then heightens the allure by debuting the psychedelic-splashed "Inside Out." Low-key, deceptively simple and tethered to a firm bass line, the song exemplifies the longstanding Austin group's strengths. This is the rare collective that knows not to give everything away. Few artists hold streamlined structures, intricate details and svelte traits closer to the vest. Entering its third decade together, Spoon hasn't forgotten that longevity is no excuse for a band not proving it matters on a nightly basis. Daniel's crew seem especially motivated by the forthcoming album and premiere several new tunes, playing confidently and with notable inter-band chemistry. Adorned in black sunglasses, a black shirt and black pants, Daniel strums his Telecaster guitar while holding it out beyond his waist and croons with a nasal accent. He's a vision of "Blonde on Blonde" era Bob Dylan, an image of understated cool--just like his songs. Tambourines jangle, pianos twinkle and maracas shake amidst spacious landscapes that encourage slinky rhythms and staccato beats. Here, the related worlds of intelligent pop, jagged rock and bluesy garage coexist. Almost effortlessly, Spoon makes the odd feel familiar. "My Mathematical Mind" turns up the skronk and sends Daniel to his knees; "I Turn My Camera On" rotates like a corkscrew plunged into a sealed bottle of wine. Back from a long hiatus, Spoon convincingly replicates the complexities and tonalities of its studio work in the live setting, a proud accomplishment on any stage--big or small. (BG)

7:17 p.m.: "I wanna bring out my best friend," Vic Mensa says, and out pops Chance the Rapper. The Chicago MCs, who met while freshmen in high school, briefly share the stage, but this is Mensa's show and he's more than ready to carry it by himself. Mensa split with Kids These Days last year, and a few months later released the sprawling mix tape, "Innanetape." He blends older material such as "Orange Soda" with a preview of new tracks he's developing for a new release, in a show that veers wildly betwen extremes of introspection and hedonism. Mensa references a life-changing moment that occurred outside Lollapalooza three years ago when he tried to fence-jump into Grant Park but ended up injured in a hospital. "What will my obituary be?" he mutters, reflecting not just on his own life but the turmoil that surrounds many young African-Americans in Chicago. Little wonder his set had the energy of a punk rock show, as the shirtless MC leaps and spins, and thrashes to the guitar riff from White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army." In the end, he brings a throng of fans and friends on stage to pogo with him. (GK)

7:34 p.m.: "Jump around!" "Can you feel it?" "Say what?" And on. And on. Ok, so Chase & Status don't have much to say. Alas, the British drum and bass combo falls short in instrumental areas as well. Oozing adrenaline and testosterone, their electronica rages and raves, leaving little to the imagination. A hype man barks commands and the large crowd obeys. Tipsy aerobics and awkward dancing ensues. Borrowing liberally from video-game soundtracks, Chase & Status purée distorted beats and vocal samples into furies of burbling crescendos and ragga passages lacking shape, direction and coherency. No worries. As long as the throbbing and pulsing persists, the masses--seemingly unaware of and unconcerned with what artist plays at Perry's--are happy. (BG)

8:45 p.m.: A party broke out at the Bud Light stage among a steadily growing crowd, a throwdown that put the lie to the notion to the notion of a DJ as mere button pusher. Does Calvin Harris make or merely aggregate music, if you expand that notion to what has always been something of a black art: assembling beats in a compelling way. But as the thump and bump drove the people nuts, you could be forgiven for wondering just what the hell the real difference was between here and Perry's, aside from a lot fewer underage drunkards. Not much, is the honest answer. So you're left to evaluate a performer such as Harris in the manipulation of the beats that he presents, and the visuals. There's a reason Harris made almost $50 million last year touring: he undrrstands the link between hips and mind in a way rare for button pushers. Tension builds like an actual performed rock song, and his set had excellent pacing, even if there were too many "Jump!" requests. That's what your beats are supposed to do, Mr. Harris. A real high point was a martial snare drum beat, overlaid with a synth track, that exploded into an irresistible thump. Couple that with fireworks and a flawless array of video graphics that made it seem like an extraterrestrial making your booty shake and it was easy to forget that this was, at the end of the day, just another button pusher even if Harris has higher aspirations than mere party impetus. And if it all started to feel the same, just remember that when you're at a party, you don't complain when the DJ makes you dance too much, right? (KW)

9:07 p.m.: Drop! Drop! Drop! Beats fall fast and furious for Krewella, showing its hometown some love. Jahan and Yasmine Yousaf bob, bounce and headbang in synchronous motion to relentless showers of electronically skewered dance music long on energy and short on subtlety. They spend a majority of time working the decks and marveling at their own handiwork, their silhouettes miniaturized against multi-story LCD screens splotched with abstract color patterns. The duo also leads the crowd in obscene sexual chants, samples snippets of ubiquitous hip-hop and rock tracks and piles on sequence after sequence of migraine-inducing bass waves. As a whole, the hedonistic overload seldom varies from what most acts have shown on this stage all weekend. But when the siblings take to the microphone and sing party anthems such as "Legacy (Save My Life)" and "Live for the Night," their hyperactive EDM crosses over into mindless pop territory no Top 40 programmer would ignore. Krewella's basic message: Party on until you can no longer stand up. Judging from the surroundings, many fans listened. (BG)

9:17 p.m.: About the only thing ill-timed during OutKast's set is the fireworks. The unintended backdrop from a South Side celebration outside Grant Park lights up the sky during the relatively sensitive "Ms. Jackson," though it would've been more appropriate during raucous opener "B.O.B." Still the long-awaited reunion of Andre 3000 and Big Boi affirms how they put the grime and the grease -- the dirt, if you will -- in dirty South hip-hop during the '90s and early 2000s. With a full band including horns and backing singers, the Atlanta duo surveys its career, dropping in strategically placed hits such as "Hey Ya" to keep the momentum flowing. It marks the second night in the row that the festival closes with some deep nostalgia from a veteran hip-hop act (Eminem wound things up Friday), but judging by the size of an audience that nearly fills Hutchinson Field, it's an appropriate soundtrack for a midsummer Saturday night. (GK)

Who peed in Kevin Williams' Wheaties? Lighten up and have a little fun. It was a beautiful day in the park, and tens of thousands of people had fun dancing and jumping to Grouplove's set, which included a fun (yes, fun. perhaps not technically perfect) cover of Sabotage. Not sure...

Lollapalooza 2015 is underway in Chicago's Grant Park. Join our coverage of the three-day music festival, as Paul McCartney, Sam Smith, Metallica and Florence and the Machine headline. On the Tribune app? Click here to see the live blog.

David Duchovny was wearing a T-shirt featuring David Duchovny on it Friday at Joe’s Bar. To be more specific, it was a T-shirt featuring a portrait photo of “The X-Files” and “Californication” star when he was about 10 years old, with “Hell or Highwater” — the name of his debut folk-rock album,...